


History

by texadian



Series: A Tad Unconventional [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Freeform, One Shot Collection, what happens in the stacks stays in the stacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texadian/pseuds/texadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock won't tell Molly why he's dragged her down to the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr as a gift for a friend.

“I still don’t understand why we’re down here, Sherlock.” Molly followed the consulting detective past another flight of stairs that hugged the corner, adorned with ceiling high bookshelves.  

“History, Molly.” He turned to shoot her a sly smile, before focusing back on the signs that hung from above. 

She’d never been to this library in London before, but something told her they were no where near the history section. She passed markers with Last names _Fa-Fr_ and stole a glance at the spine of one of the books: _Mark’s Dissertation On the Half-life of Amiodarone_. 

“Is this for a case?” she posed, sceptically. 

He shook his head, grinning to himself. “It should be right up here.”

Without warning, he stopped between two of the narrow aisles, causing Molly to walk head first into his back. She recovered, apologizing profusely, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just took hold of her wrist, enclosing it within his larger hand, and pulled her sharply to the right. 

The dank row of shelves were disheveled and dusty. Molly ran a finger over the ridge of a gold embroidered book and watched as it made a clean line through the grey dust.  

“This row hasn’t been touched in years,” she commented. “You weren’t lying when you mentioned history.”

Sherlock nodded along while his eyes roamed the shelf opposite of him. 

“Not touched in years, except maybe, this one.” He slid out a narrow blue hardcover, maybe ten years old, and flipped through it delicately. 

“What’s that?” She looked over his right arm. 

He ignored her question, with lips pursed, until his thumb halted in its tracks, letting a solitary page fall back to the side it’d come from. 

She surveyed the text and graphs on the right side of the book and began to smile. 

“History,” he repeated. “Graduate Thesis on _Levels of enzymes in cerebrospinal fluid as indices of pathological change_ , by Molly Hooper.“

“Dated March 3rd, 2004,” she finished for him. 

A moment of companionable silence surrounded them. She reached over his arm and switched pages -the coarse fabric of his suit rubbing against her bare arm. Then the sound of footsteps and voices, descending the stairs above them, broke their reverie. 

“I forgot I even wrote that,” she whispered quietly. 

He looked down, dolefully, to meet her eyes. They lingered on hers, never turning away. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so intrusive, letting her arm rest against his. 

“This job… It’s been ten years in the making,” he spoke even softer. 

She backed away from him and felt her stomach drop like a heavy weight. 

“You think I should take it?” she asked. 

He closed the book with a thud and nodded. “Head of pathology. It’s quite a title.”

“What about John, and Lestrade, and _you_?” They both knew the first two were irrelevant. 

“I’m sure Mycroft could pull some proverbial strings. And if all else fails, it’s only a few hours drive.”

“You drive?” she teased.

His brows furrowed and he gave her that look. That _don’t make jokes Molly,_ look. Except this time, he’d take any joke just to prolong her presence. 

“Right, yes. You’ll drive.” 

Sherlock checked his watch for show and stuck his hand out. She met him halfway, his hand sliding into hers, and they shook with an air of decorum. 

“I will see you… around, Molly Hooper.”

He didn’t let go. 

“I look forward to it.”

She felt his fingers ghosting over the inside of her wrist. 

“I must warn you that the odds of all else failing are very high.”

“As I would expect,” she replied. She hid her ever growing smile under a mask of indifference. 

“There is a going away party at Baker Street this Friday. Your attendance is most certainly required.

“But that’s tomorrow. Bit short notice, don’t you think?” She feigned concern.

“Yes. I expect the others’ invitations will never make it out in time.”

“Oh, what a pity.”

Sherlock pulled their locked hands towards him. “I’m sure they’ll get over it.”


End file.
